


Wounded

by notimmortal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depressed Sherlock, John's kind of a dick, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt, because he doesn't understand, but then he does understand, mary doesn't exist, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3484340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notimmortal/pseuds/notimmortal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never let his wound heal after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded

The wounds from his time away from London still hadn’t healed. His job made it so they wouldn’t heal completely, stitches being reopened during the chases and pain searing up his spine when he bent down. He made due, though. Never showed his pain to anyone, least of all John. He didn’t want John to be angrier with him than he already was.  
Sherlock refused to tell John what had happened when he was away from London. John’s possible reactions terrified him. John could yell or leave, not wanting to deal with someone as broken as Sherlock was. No. It was best not to tell John, let him live his life happily without knowing what had happened to him while he was gone. 

Sherlock had been pulling away from everyone, most of all John. He didn’t notice, however. He thought he was doing what was right, spacing himself from those he had hurt in order to save them. By fading slowly out of their lives, things would be better, he was sure of it. Mycroft, however, was not so sure. 

“Sherlock what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“What could you possibly mean by that, Mycroft? Do you dislike how I’ve handled cases or how I have continued to live my life?”

“I’m not sure this counts as living,” Mycroft said, his voice sounded both angry and tired. “I did not bring you back to London for you to mope about and hide from your friends.”

“I am not ‘moping about’, Mycroft. I’ve been out, solving cases, tracking down more of Moriarty’s men. I’m not convinced they’re all gone,” Sherlock got up and walked to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. “What became of Moriarty’s body? How did your men dispose of it?”

“You’re avoiding the subject, Sherlock!”

“And what would the subject be, Mycroft?”

“The fact that you have completely avoided your friends since you came back, Sherlock!” Sherlock stilled. The kettle went off, a shrill whistle that filled the empty space. Mycroft sighed and turned off the kettle. “Why are you doing this, Sherlock?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t want you to go back to your habit of drug usage. I’d rather keep you happy and off of the streets if it’s all the same with you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I can assure you that your accusations are incorrect. I’m perfectly happy and have not been avoiding my friends. There is absolutely nothing wrong, and if that is all you were here for, you may leave. Please.”

“You’re friends have a different opinion on the subject than you do, Sherlock. The man from the Yard, Lestrade, says you haven’t been your usual, obnoxious self on cases. Molly says you never go down to the morgue anymore. Mrs. Hudson says she hasn’t heard you shoot a wall or make any kind of experiment in weeks. John came to me personally to say there was something wrong.”

“Why have you been talking to these people? Don’t you have better things to do with your time, Mycroft?”

“Yes, actually, I do. Unfortunately for me, I also have a younger brother to take care of.”

“There is nothing to take care of, Mycroft! Now, why don’t you be on your bloody way already and go take care of those important things?”

“Have you told your friends what happened yet?”

“There is no reason to. I do not wish to upset them.”

“Ah. So that’s the reason. You need to tell them, Sherlock.”

“I don’t need to do anything. The only thing that needs to be done right now is you walking out that door.”

Mycroft studied his younger brother. “Your wounds haven’t healed, have they? It’s been months, but you won’t let them heal properly.”

Sherlock looks away, directing his attention out the window. “It’s to make up for what I did. I hurt my only friends, Mycroft. The only friends I’ve ever had. The least I can do is hurt a bit for them, too.”

“Sherlock-“

“Please, just go, Mycroft.” For once, Mycroft listened to his younger brother. He left 221B, leaving a crying Sherlock alone in the room.

***

When John came back later, he found Sherlock lying motionlessly on the floor. “Sherlock? Oh bloody hell, Sherlock, you better not be dead.”  
“I’m not dead, John. But I should be.”

“Now why would you say something like that?” John asked, trying to get Sherlock to sit up. Sherlock ignored his attempts, choosing to continue to stare at the ceiling. “Sherlock, come on. Sit up and tell me what’s wrong.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong, John.”

“Says the man who is lying on the ground, refusing to move or even look at me,” John sighed, walking away from Sherlock. “You know, sometimes I really wish you let me into your head. You’ve been so closed off lately. It’s almost like you’re still dead. Sometimes I think it would’ve been better if you had just stayed dead.” John muttered, thinking Sherlock couldn’t hear him.

Sherlock said nothing, letting John believe he hadn’t heard what he had said at the stairs. Once John had entered his room, Sherlock turned onto his side, facing away from John.

“Me too, John. Me too.”

***

When John got up the next morning, Sherlock was still in the same spot on the floor. “Are you ever going to move from that spot?” John waited, but no response was heard. “Fine, Sherlock, be like that. See if I care. You want to lay there, swimming in a pit of depression, fine by me. I’m gonna go look for a new place to stay, find someone who actually wants my company, since it’s clear as hell you don’t want it.” John stormed out of the flat, slamming the door shut.

Sherlock got up when John left, walking over to the bathroom. He removed his shirt and looked at the wounds littering his body. Some were from fights, other from plain torture. Some had been put there by himself. Each one was grotesquely displayed, not quite healed but trying to. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face seemed lifeless and hollow, as if he truly were dead. A large part of him wished that he was.

Sliding his shirt back on, he went to his room and started packing his things up. There was no reason to stay at 221B, or in London at all, without John. He would leave, have Mycroft help him find somewhere else to go. When John returned to the flat, Sherlock would be gone. John could have a normal life, a life without the burden of Sherlock Holmes. And though it killed him to leave John, he knew it was best.

“Sherlock? Dearie, are you home?” a voice, Mrs. Hudson, called from the door to the flat.

“I’m in my room, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll be down in a moment.” Sherlock re-buttoned his shirt, which he hadn’t realized hadn’t been buttoned in the first place, and went to see Mrs. Hudson.

“There you are, Sherlock. I was worried you had gone missing again.”

“I could never go missing again,” Sherlock lied, smiling at Mrs. Hudson.”

“It’s just… You haven’t been spending much time with people lately. You take cases, but other than that, you’re locked away in here. Is everything alright?”  
Sherlock forced another smiled. “I can assure you that everything is quite alright, Mrs. Hudson. There is no need to worry.”

“How are things with you and John? Are you boys together again?”

“We were never together in the first place, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Yes, but you wanted to be. That much was clear,” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but was instantly cut off. “Don’t even try to deny it, dearie. You loved that man, still do if you ask me.”

“You would be correct, Mrs. Hudson. But I’m not good for John. He needs someone… better. Someone more worthy of him and his friendship.”

“You’re definitely worthy of his friendship, Sherlock. Of course you are. How could you even say something like that?”

“I’m not always… completely honest with John. Or any of you. But it’s because I want you to stay safe.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says softly. “What have you been keeping from us?”

“Nothing that you need to know now,” Sherlock said, matching Mrs. Hudson’s soft tone. “I think it’d be best if I went outside for a while, if it’s all the same with you, Mrs. Hudson.”  
Mrs. Hudson looked apprehensive, but nodded. “Alright, Sherlock. I’ll be going then.”

Once Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock returned to packing in his room. Sherlock still wasn’t sure if he was going to leave, so he decided against packing clothes up. He would try to find a place to stay, knowing fully well what his other option would be if he didn’t. Sherlock hailed a cab, getting in and watching 221B Baker Street fade in the distance.

***

Sherlock had the cab take him to Mycroft, knowing that only his brother would be able to help him, as much as it pained him to admit. He walked into the building and requested to see Mycroft. They took him to his brother almost immediately.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

“I seek sanctuary. I need your help to find somewhere else to live, preferably out of London.”

“And why should I do that? There is nothing wrong with your flat.”

“The problem isn’t the flat, it’s me. John… John would prefer not to live with me any longer and rather than forcing him to find a new place, I would prefer to leave London. There is nothing for me here.”

“What about your friends, Sherlock?”

“You said it yourself, I pushed them away. They would rather not deal with me and I refuse to make people I care about me miserable because of my presence. Things were better off when I was away for them. I’d like things to go back to that.”

“They thought you were dead, Sherlock. Who was that better for?”

“John,” Sherlock said simply, ignoring the clenching in his chest. “He said it himself, though he thought I wouldn’t hear it. He was mistaken, however, and I heard every word he said.”

“And what was it that he said?”

“Sometimes I think it would be better if you had stayed dead,” Sherlock quoted effortlessly, heart breaking as he did so. “I have been nothing but a burden for John and wish to cease being that. All I want is for John to be happy, and if that means leaving, I’ll leave.”

“You must really love him, Sherlock. You knew caring was not an advantage of any sort, yet you still love him.”

“Of course I do. And that’s why I have to go, I have to let him live his life. I can’t keep him miserable in my company. It pains me to do so.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock tiredly, but nodded. “I will try to find you a place to stay out of London. It shouldn’t take me more than twenty four hours. Will you be able to stay at Baker Street until then?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, thinking about his other option once more. Twenty four hours might be too long. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” Mycroft nodded, signaling dismissal. Sherlock walked away with a small nod in return. Once at the door, he paused. “Thank you, Mycroft. For helping me.”

“You’re my brother, Sherlock. Of course I’ll help you.”

Sherlock hailed another cab and returned to his flat. He knew what he must do, the option blaringly obvious. There was no more room for Sherlock Holmes.

***

Once back inside the flat, Sherlock realized that John had yet to return. He hadn’t thought of the possibility that John might not return to the flat today. This meant that he might not return at all. Sherlock sighed, a dark feeling weighing him down. Before setting about his task, Sherlock decided to take a final look around the flat.

He noted all of the marks left by experiments and the bullet holes in the walls caused by his rampant boredom. He went through the jars of various body parts and substances in the refrigerator, throwing away the contents so there would be one less thing for John to take care of. On the way back to his room, he stopped at John’s door. He had never entered the room before and decided not to change that fact. Placing his hand on the door, he cried. 

The time had finally come. There was no other way. Walking into his room, Sherlock pulled out his gun. Slowly, he placed the gun to his temple, feeling the cool metal against his skin. This would be the last feeling he knew, he thinks to himself. His world would end, not with a whimper, but with a bang. 

“Goodbye, John,” he whispered into the empty room, repeating the words from his last death. Only this time, there would be no returning.

“Sherlock? Sherlock what the hell do you think you’re doing?” someone yelled. He wasn’t certain if there was truly someone there or if his mind had started to conjure imaginary people. “Sherlock, stop. Put the gun down.”

Keeping the gun to his head, Sherlock turned to see John. “John? Is… Is that really you?” There was a great possibility that it was all in his head. It had happened before, Sherlock rambling on and on to a John that wasn’t even there.

“What kind of question is that? Of course it’s me, Sherlock. Now put down the gun.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is what needs to be done.”

“What are you on about, Sherlock? There is no reason to kill yourself.”

“But…” Sherlock trailed off, refusing to look at John or take the gun away from his head.

“But what, Sherlock?” John’s temper was rising, it wouldn’t be long before he snapped. “Sherlock, just put down the gun.”

“You said it’d be better.”

“What?”

“You said it’d be better… if I had stayed dead,” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and shaky, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. John was speechless, staring at Sherlock with shock in his eyes. “It’s okay, John. I know what the truth is. I agree with you. So I’m going back to it, only this time there will be no return for me.”

“Sherlock, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did, John. It’s alright, I know it’s true. I won’t continue to burden you with my presence,” Sherlock paused, wiping the tears from his face. “You deserve a better life, John Watson. I wish you the best in it. You are truly the bravest, greatest man I have ever had the privilege of knowing.”

“Sherlock, stop!” John shouted, rushing forward to take the gun out of Sherlock’s hand. He shoved against his chest, causing Sherlock to flinch back, dropping the gun. As John picked up the gun, he noticed Sherlock rubbing his chest in pain. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, John. Please, just let me finish. I’m so close.”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I am not about to sit here and watch the man I love blow his brains out! So you are going to sit down and tell me what’s wrong or so help me God I will call your brother over here.”

This made Sherlock fall silent, ignoring John’s confession of love. He slowly walked over to the bed and sat down. “I’m not sure this is something you will want to hear.”

“Tell me anyways.”

“When I… went away, I was working to take down Moriarty’s men. Things got… challenging. There were some fights and some daring escapes… Eventually I got captured,” Sherlock opened his shirt to reveal the wounds to John. “They tortured me, beating me senseless. But it had to be done.”

John looked appalled. “Why didn’t you tell me? These obviously haven’t healed properly. I could’ve helped.”

“They serve as a reminder. A punishment for what I put you all through while I was gone. It’s my way of paying you back.”

“Sherlock these need to be treated. Wait right here, I’m going to grab my medical bag.” John dashed out of the room, worry spread across his face. When he came back he had Sherlock remove his shirt completely. As he treated the wounds he asked, “Sherlock… Why did you do it? Why did you fake the jump in the first place?”

“He was going to have you killed. There were gunman on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let Moriarty get away with killing you, any of you. My only three friends… And you, John, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I would’ve been the reason you were dead. Knowing… Knowing that I had failed to save the man I loved,” John’s movement slowed to a halt, hand on a wound on Sherlock’s chest. “So I pretended to die. It was the only way.”

“You did all of that… To save us?”

“To save you, John. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Caring is not an advantage. You were ready to leave, I should have let you.”

John sighed. “I was never going to leave, Sherlock. I was just angry with you. I could never do that. I would never do that. I love you, Sherlock.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“How could I not?”

“You don’t want me, John. I’m impossibly rude, obnoxious, addicted to solving crimes and… and I’m wounded, John. I’m broken, possibly beyond repair. You deserve better.”  
John kissed Sherlock’s temple, in the exact same place where the gun had been held. “You’re not broken, Sherlock. You’re just you. And I love you. I’m sorry, for how I acted before. I just… I couldn’t stand to see you like that. I couldn’t stand the fact that you were pulling away. I was losing you. I can’t… I can’t lose you again, Sherlock. Not again.”

“Never again. I promise. I’m sorry, John. For what I’ve done. But… If you can forgive me-“

“Of course I forgive you, you bloody fool!”

“Then I forgive you as well. I’d like to stay, if you’ll have me.”

John smiled and wrapped his arms around Sherlock carefully, trying to avoid causing more harm. “I love you, you idiot.”

Sherlock gently pressed his lips to John’s. “And I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this! Please comment with ways to improve or things you might want to see from me next.


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